Bloody Valentine
by bellanoire
Summary: You should not love that she will kill for you. You should not love that she has killed for you. But you do.


_**Author's Note:**_ Honestly I can't decide if this one-shot is the result of too much brandy and chocolate or me simply being in the holiday spirit. Whatever it is, please enjoy. Happy Valentine's Day!

_**Disclaimer:** _I own no parts of the Harry Potter universe, that honor belongs to J.K. Rowling. I merely play with the wonderful characters.

* * *

There is blood on her face, in her hair, crimson stains her fingers, crusted beneath her nails. Her lips split into a feral grin, and yes there is blood on her teeth too. You don't care, you don't say a word. You merely allow her passage, stepping out of her way to go into the bathroom. The bowl is by the sink and you fill it with hot water. The water is hot enough to scald, steam rising, curling like smoke, fogging the mirror, opening your pores. You grab a rag and toss it into the bowl and go back to her.

You realize that your heart should be pounding, you realize that there should be some fear, some apprehension as you set the bowl of water down and join her on the bed. It should at least scare you that those instinctual feelings are absent. You watch her, waiting for the water to cool enough to wring out the rag, as she strips out of her clothes. Torn, shredded, fraying fabric falling to bits peels away to reveal bruised alabaster skin. There is more blood. Cuts, scrapes along her shoulders and collarbone, what looks suspiciously like teeth marks. Her naked breasts and torso however is unscathed. The damage extends to her arms down to her wrists. Your hands tremble as you hesitantly press one of the blackening marks. She hisses, the sound half pain, half pleasure. You would know, you've heard it many times before.

"You didn't have to do this," you mutter, casually, conversationally as you chance the hot water, gritting your teeth against the burn as you squeeze the rag and begin to gently drag it along her face, cleaning the blood and sweat from her skin, "I can take care of myself."

Her response is a noncommittal grunt that can mean anything – she could be agreeing, disagreeing. You don't know. The fact that you don't doesn't deter your task. You can't help but run your fingers through her hair. It's tangled, matted in places but soft. The curls are like nooses, tightening around your digits as you fondle them, pull them, caress. One could get lost in hair like this. You do, quite often, as it is your favorite feature of hers. Right before her eyes which are watching you. Bottomless pits of pitch, intense, piercing, shining with blood lust, arousal, something more tender that makes your stomach clench and your thighs ache.

"Did you kill them?" Your tone hasn't changed, mild, nonchalant as if asking about the weather. Her smile returns, that full, cruel mouth of hers spreading so that her expression is gleeful.

"Yes."

You try to ignore the way that word, that one syllable uttered on a husky rasp makes you want to bite your lip to keep from moaning. It should disgust you that the idea of your lover killing another person affects you like this, turns you on, makes you want to toss the damp rag, cooling with each pass over her skin, to the side and replace it with your tongue. But you are well past all of that now.

"Tell me what you did to them."

These words, this demand is whispered so softly, the thick air around you both almost swallows it but she hears you. And she leans forward, crossing the distance between you, close enough to steal a kiss if she wants. But she doesn't. Her lips instead brush the shell of your ear and she chuckles, lowly as a shudder rolls down your spine and your core throbs.

"I castrated the first one. Slowly. You should have heard his screams. Shrieks. He begged for death. I had to stuff his useless prick into his mouth just to shut him up. It didn't work. As for the other, I let him watch. He couldn't move. He couldn't blink. All he could do was wait for his turn."

You can't stifle your moan now, you don't even try. It rises from your throat, wanton and unbridled. Your hand clenches in her hair, pulling her closer and you feel her hands, her fingers, still bloodied teasing, stroking your back, your hip. You can feel the edges of her nails even through your clothes and you know with just a bit more pressure she can break the skin without you undressing.

She licks you, her mouth moving from your ear, her tongue blazing a hot path down to the column of your throat. Her teeth nip, viciously enough to draw whimpers from you but not hard enough to draw blood. There's enough of it on her already that you haven't yet washed off. Sure, prying fingers move from your hip, shifting and sliding downward and beneath the barrier of your underwear. They play, impishly in the heat and wetness they find.

You gasp as your clit is forced from its hood, your body curling in on itself, ready to fall apart but she holds you up, pressing you flush against her as she rubs in tight, firm circles, sending electrical currents through your blood stream, driving broken, throaty groans from your lips. You're so close already and she knows it. But she's not going to let you come just yet. She's stroking now, no longer giving you the direct contact you attempt to buck up to meet. Her other hand is still scratching at the small of your back but is now giving equal parts support and restraint. You can't move freely. Not without her consent. Consent you know she won't readily give.

"T-tell me what you...mmm...what you did then?" It takes you two tries to breathlessly whimper. Your tongue is becoming sluggish, your brain not wanting to piece sentences together. Moaning is easier, begging for release would be even easier still.

"I slit their throats."

The confession, or declaration or whatever it is is accompanied by her finally penetrating you, pressing three sticky fingers into your tight, weeping core and you cry out half in pain, half in pleasure. She can draw both sounds from you just as easily as you can do to her. Your hands are grasping at her now, her hair, her bare skin, seeking purchase against the onslaught. Because she isn't teasing you anymore, she is fucking you. Hard. You can feel the tautness in the muscles of her forearm as she plunges into you, over and over again, her lips crashing down onto yours to greedily swallow the sounds she is coaxing from your vocal chords.

"I slit their throats and laughed as they drowned in their own blood, pet." She whispers the murderous words as if they are sweet nothings, endearments all the while you can feel your inner walls beginning to clench. You are on the edge of climax and you want nothing more than to tumble over the edge.

"B-bella, oh god Bella," you whimper helpless as she twists her fingers deep inside you, curling them upward to press on that soppy, spongy tissue with each punishing thrust. Your legs shake and tense. You can feel the scorching lick of hit at the base of your spine. Your mouth opens wide and you scream as you clench and release in rhythmic waves.

The aftershocks are nearly as crippling and you can hardly focus your eyes to take in the smug look on her face as she regards you. Her brows are furrowed and there is a fleeting something in her expressive eyes that you cannot even begin to chase at the moment. You don't have to because you already know what it is. But you don't want to dwell on insecurities now. There is no need to. You are already too far gone, well past the point of leaving her for being who she is. For doing what she does. Especially not tonight when it was you who caused this. You sounded the death knell for those two men without having to spill any blood. You are just as wicked as she is. And as you come down from the incredible release, you press your lips to hers in both gratitude and affection.

You should not love that she will kill for you.

"No one but me is allowed to call you Mudblood."

You should not love that she has killed for you.

"Yes, Bella."

But you do.


End file.
